Love By Numbers
by eruthiel
Summary: Oneshot. Drumknott comes to work and find a half-conscious Moist von Lipwig outside the Patrician's study. They end up discussing the new girl at the palace.


**If you've read my other ANs, you'll know by now that I go nuts for feedback. ;) Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I own no novels. I make no cash.**

The soft, gentle light of a terminally early morning filled the room. As it teasingly danced across his face, Moist von Lipwig wondered if this was what his parents had meant by 'a steady occupation'.

"And is it not the right of all men, granted by whatever divine creature brought our infinite world into existence, to be free? If freedom is to be achieved, must great sacrifices not be made? True freedom, surely, is the opportunity to make one's own mistakes, and accept the ultimate consequences for those mortal errors. I conclude, not by begging for my own release, but by challenging you -"

"- To consider the compromised condition in which I place my soul through the very act of denying you your decision on the outcome, for better or for worse, of your own gods-given life." Lord Vetinari smiled sweetly. "Brendan Garroid's defence in the 1923 court case, I believe. He was charged with petty theft, apparently, but was hung under the charge of 'seriously wasting court time'." The Patrician sighed. "Such a waste."

Moist tried hard not gape. "Y-y-yurk?"

"Quite. But I don't want to hear such things from you again, Mr Lipwig! You have such a marvellous way with words that it pains me to see you resort to plagiarism. Now run along."

Wondering whether the phrase 'run along' was in fact scarier than anything else he had heard that day, Moist scratched the back of his neck nervously. "So – you're not sending me to Klatch?"

Vetinari looked perfectly surprised. "Send you to Klatch? Wherever did you get that notion, Mr Lipwig?"

"Er . . . I think it was when you said 'I'll send you to -'" It finally dawned on him. "You've changed your mind, sir?"

Raising an eyebrow, Vetinari gave the slightest of nods. Moist could have melted with relief, but was somewhat glad that he didn't. He'd left the study before he could finish being told to do so.

Drumknott was about to open (1) the door to his master's study when he noticed the man sitting on the floor. He recognised it at once. "Mr Lipwig, sir? Are you quite alright?"

Moist looked up from under his hat. "Er – yes, thank you . . ." Desperately, he rifled through his mental index of first names. "Rupert."

"It's Rufus, sir, if you don't mind. Shouldn't you be at the harbour, sir? I thought his lordship-"

Moist waved a hand and grinned. "It's alright, Ronald. Your man said I could stay here. I reckon I swung it. Stayed up all night trying to figure out how to pitch it. All night. And I did it!" With that, his head flopped forward onto his chest.

The clerk sighed. "Um . . ." Carefully laying a few files down outside the door, he grabbed the tax collector under his armpits and heaved.

Demanding money with menaces can only be fun for so long and, like every occupation, had eventually ceased to entertain the ex-conman. At a loss for something to do with him, Vetinari had laid plans to send Moist to Klatch as an ambassador – a suggestion that gave sleepless nights to more than one interested party, including Moist himself. (2)

"Uuuuu . . ."

"He's coming round!"

"_You bastard_!"

Moist struggled upright, already wide awake. "Why'd you have to go and say that, eh? I've heard it too many times before! For gods' sakes! Why couldn't you just say something like 'have a pleasant sleep, Moist?' or 'here's your coffee, Moist'? Anything but '_he's coming round_'! It's such a cliché!"

There was a silence so awkward it would have been shunned by a group of adolescent boys. For the first time, he registered that Drumknott was not the only other person in the room – a kitchen of some sort, judging by the knives and unidentified grinding sounds _(oh gods please let it be a kitchen)_. A young woman with soft features and large eyes was staring at him, eyebrows raised in a way that made the observer imagine that she always looked slightly surprised. Brown hair swayed around her face as she slowly smiled and nodded in approval.

"Good to see you up and about, Mr Lipwig, sir. If I am no longer needed, I'll get back to my work, shall I?"

Moist watched as she left, carefully taking in the plain, sensible dress and cardigan, the way she subtly swung her hips, the subdued, respectful voice he'd heard in all the other clerks – and yet the woman had a flash of cheekiness in her eyes that only a man used to dealing in secrets would have spotted. He turned to Drumknott and raised his eyebrows as if to say: 'why are you staring at her like she's the first woman you ever said two words to?' And then his face dropped with the sudden realisation: 'oh gods, she _is_ the first woman you ever said two words to'. Trying hard not to picture whatever passed for Drumknott's libido, Moist sighed and swung his legs off the edge of the table where he'd been laid.

"Alright, you can stop looking like a starving man with a packet of peanuts. It's just us two here now." Seeing the pained look on the secretary's face, Moist gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "New girl, eh?"

Drumknott nodded mutely.

"Thought so. Now, there's something we really ought to talk about." _How old is this man? _Moist wondered. _As old as me, at least. Late twenties, perhaps. Ye gods. _"You like her very much, don't you?"

Another nod. "On her first day . . . I found her trying to fix the clock in the waiting room. And . . ." He blushed. "And . . ."

"Out with it!"

"She winked at me." With the guilty yet relieved look of someone who has just revealed a terrible secret, Drumknott sat back.

"Ah. Winked at you, eh? Shocking. Now, would it be fair to say that you've never actually had any sort of relationship with another human being?"

"Well . . . my mother . . . er, no, not really, no." Miserably, Drumknott tried to stand up, but Moist pushed him firmly back down again.

"Go on."

"Well, his lordship . . . is very . . ." He gave up, as many have when asked to find a positive adjective that could be used in reference to the patrician.

"I see." Moist sighed again, gathered his strength, and the lesson began.

--

Half an hour later, when Moist and Drumknott were dragging the flipchart and pipe cleaners back upstairs, both men were much too absorbed in their own thoughts to say anything much. Eventually, the clerk managed to ask: "And that's really how it works, is it?"

"Certainly."

"Gosh."

Silence swallowed them up again. In the safety of his own head, Drumknott thought: _How silly. That system could certainly be improved upon . . ._

(1) Or try to open, using any part of his body that wasn't already supporting stacks of files.

(2) His initial reaction was to declare that if Lord Vetinari was seriously considering it, then he, Moist von Lipwig, was a small cherry pancake from the mountainous regions rimwards of Uberwald.


End file.
